I HAD often seen the name on the ordnance map, and had as often
wondered what sort of a house it was.
If I had had the placing, it should have been among pine woods
in some deep, waterless valley, or else in the Fens by a sluggish
tidal river, with aspens whispering in a garden half choked by
poisonous evergreens.
I might have placed it in a cathedral city, in a sunless alley
overlooking the narrow strip of graveyard of a church no longer
used; a house so surrounded by steeple and belfry that every sleeper
in it would wake at midnight, aroused by the clamorous insistence
of the chimes.
But the Midnight House of cold reality, that I had found by chance
on the map when planning a walking tour that never came into being,
was none of these. I saw no more than an inn on an old coaching
road that crossed the moors as straight as an arrow, keeping to
the hill-tops, so that I guessed it to be Roman.
Men have a certain way of living in accordance with their name
that one often looks for in vain with places. The Pogsons will
never produce a poet, whatever may be the fame they may achieve
as lawyers, journalists, or sanitary engineers; but Monckton-in-the-Forest,
through which I passed last week, is a railway junction and nothing
more, in the middle of a bare plain; not a stone remains of the
once famous priory that gave to the place its name.
I expected then to be disappointed, but for some reason or other
I made a resolve, if ever chance should leave me within twenty
miles of the inn, to spend a night in Midnight House.
I could not have chosen a better day. It was late in November and
warm-too warm I had found for the last five-mile tramp across the
heather. I had seen no one since noon, when a keeper on the distant
skyline had tried in vain to make me understand that I was trespassing;
and now at dusk I stood

travel books:
where is HTML
where is HEAD
where is TITLE MIDNIGHT HOUSE I HAD often seen what is name on what is ordnance map, and had as often wondered what sort of a house it was. If I had had what is placing, it should have been among pine woods in some deep, waterless valley, or else in what is Fens by a sluggish tidal river, with aspens whispering in a garden half choked by poisonous evergreens. I might have placed it in a cathedral city, in a sunless alley overlooking what is narrow strip of graveyard of a church no longer used; a house so surrounded by steeple and belfry that every sleeper in it would wake at midnight, aroused by what is clamorous insistence of what is chimes. But what is Midnight House of cold reality, that I had found by chance on what is map when planning a walking tour that never came into being, was none of these. I saw no more than an inn on an old coaching road that crossed what is moors as straight as an arrow, keeping to what is hill-tops, so that I guessed it to be Roman. Men have a certain way of living in accordance with their name that one often looks for in vain with places. what is Pogsons will never produce a poet, whatever may be what is fame they may achieve as lawyers, journalists, or sanitary engineers; but Monckton-in-the-Forest, through which I passed last week, is a railway junction and nothing more, in what is middle of a bare plain; not a stone remains of what is once famous priory that gave to what is place its name. I expected then to be disappointed, but for some reason or other I made a resolve, if ever chance should leave me within twenty miles of what is inn, to spend a night in Midnight House. I could not have chosen a better day. It was late in November and warm-too warm I had found for what is last five-mile tramp across what is heather. I had seen no one since noon, when a keeper on what is distant skyline had tried in vain to make me understand that I was trespassing; and now at dusk I stood
where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books."
where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css"
where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"
where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000"
where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old
Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" Midnight Tales
(1946)
where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0"
where is center
where is tr
where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center"
where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left"
where is div align="center"
where is p align="left" Page 1
where is p align="center" where is strong MIDNIGHT HOUSE
where is p align="justify" I HAD often seen what is name on what is ordnance map, and had as often
wondered what sort of a house it was.
If I had had what is placing, it should have been among pine woods
in some deep, waterless valley, or else in what is Fens by a sluggish
tidal river, with aspens whispering in a garden half choked by
poisonous evergreens.
I might have placed it in a cathedral city, in a sunless alley
overlooking what is narrow strip of graveyard of a church no longer
used; a house so surrounded by steeple and belfry that every sleeper
in it would wake at midnight, aroused by what is clamorous insistence
of what is chimes.
But what is Midnight House of cold reality, that I had found by chance
on what is map when planning a walking tour that never came into being,
was none of these. I saw no more than an inn on an old coaching
road that crossed what is moors as straight as an arrow, keeping to
what is hill-tops, so that I guessed it to be Roman.
Men have a certain way of living in accordance with their name
that one often looks for in vain with places. what is Pogsons will
never produce a poet, whatever may be what is fame they may achieve
as lawyers, journalists, or sanitary engineers; but Monckton-in-the-Forest,
through which I passed last week, is a railway junction and nothing
more, in what is middle of a bare plain; not a stone remains of the
once famous priory that gave to what is place its name.
I expected then to be disappointed, but for some reason or other
I made a resolve, if ever chance should leave me within twenty
miles of what is inn, to spend a night in Midnight House.
I could not have chosen a better day. It was late in November and
warm-too warm I had found for what is last five-mile tramp across the
heather. I had seen no one since noon, when a keeper on what is distant
skyline had tried in vain to make me understand that I was trespassing;
and now at dusk I stood
where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %
travel books: Midnight Tales (1946) books